


Irregularities

by latin_cat



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One evening in Seringapatam.  The first time.  (Set after <i>Tiger</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irregularities

**INDIA, 1799**

Colonel Arthur Wellesley stalked towards his rooms, his footsteps ringing loudly on the marble floors of the Dowlut Baugh palace. He had just sat through a banquet given by the newly re-instated Rajah of Seringapatam in thanks to the British for the liberation of his people from the tyranny of the Tippoo Sultan, the so-called Tiger of Mysore. They had eaten in the Indian style, sat cross-legged on cushions with the food spread on a long, low table and as a result the young colonel was suffering from an acute attack of indigestion.

He cursed under his breath as he turned the corner, his chest burning and stomach gurgling in protest as he pushed open the door to his bedchamber. He took five strides across the room, flopped face down on the silken monstrosity posing as a bed, burying his face in the numerous cushions and let out a groan. He had sampled curry once before out of curiosity, but it had not agreed with him in the least and tonight’s dinner had not changed his previous conceptions in the slightest. Let the blasted heathens keep their spices; what he would not give at this moment for a decent beefsteak or stew… And he disapproved of the way some of the more junior officers had started secretly laying bets as to who could stomach the spiciest dishes. English cooking may be on the whole unimaginative, but at least it didn’t usually rebel against the guts! In the end they nearly all had become quite disgraceful, and subsequently Wellesley had taken his leave as soon as courtesy permitted.

Rolling over onto his back he gazed blankly up at the ancient high ceiling, breathing a sigh as he did so. After the taking of Seringapatam it was an absolute certainty that he would be made up to major-general; Richard would see to that if nobody else did. Perhaps he might even be given the governorship of Mysore? He let a wry smile curl at his lips. Sometimes it did pay to be related to the Governor General; though on the other hand Wellesley reckoned his brother would have to engineer his rise to at least field marshal before he would be anywhere near grateful enough to possess such a foul-tempered sibling. He owed a lot to Richard, and now he prayed that he would live to repay him. He did not doubt his ability – was convinced that he would make a damn fine general – but longed to prove himself to be more than a jumped-up aristocrat with more cash than sense. He was aware many of his fellow officers resented his meteoric rise and comparative lack of experience, Baird being the most vocal. Hypocrites to a man, all of them; they would have done the same in his position, for only a fool would not exploit such an advantage as his. 

Wellesley squinted up at the intricate plasterwork above him, unable to decide whether one particularly ornate patch was meant to depict a tangle of flowers or a peacock. ‘Boy Wellesley’ some were calling him, and that irked him, as was intended… His head felt somewhat fuzzy after the wine at dinner and he suspected that it may have been inadvisable to have imbibed so freely of the port. The Colonel was not what one could call liberal with his drink, but there had been so many toasts that evening – bumpers all of them, his glass continually refilled by some unseen hand – it had been near impossible to keep a cap on the flow of alcohol. Tomorrow he would face the business of establishing some form of government in Mysore, and for that he would need a clear head. Perhaps a walk would be beneficial; some fresh air and the chance of some quiet? The sounds of the continuing banquet filtered up from the lower floors, and he was suddenly possessed with a burning desire to be as far away from the company of his fellow officers as possible. The Orkneys might be nice at this time of year…

With great effort he raised himself from the mattress and slithered off the bed, dropping to his knees and resting his forehead against the silk covers before prising himself up from the cool tiles. Crossing to the large black portmanteau he exchanged his best coat for his undress uniform jacket, which had by far a lesser amount of gold lace, but decided to leave his hat. He did not wish to appear any more conspicuous than necessary, and he felt an officer’s cocked hat would draw unsolicited attention. Satisfied with his appearance, he headed back out into the corridor, shutting the door firmly behind him. Once outside the courtyard of the palace he turned to his left, heading across the square towards the western wall and the shelter of the city’s many alleyways. As he stepped into the shadows a small nagging voice at the back of his head began suggesting that it was not a very good idea to be out in a strange city alone at night; yet the urge to escape was so strong that he ignored its protestations. He walked slowly, taking stock of his surroundings - not because he particularly wished to view Seringapatam, but more to revel in the novelty of not having to hurry himself. For once he had time to saunter, so saunter he did, making his way through the darkened streets at a leisurely pace.

There was hardly anyone about, for which he was exceptionally glad. The streets were near deserted, save the odd mangy cat or dog, though round the next corner he was somewhat startled to come nose to chest with a cow. Negotiating his way past the passive beast, ignoring the doleful look in its big brown eyes, he wandered further into the labyrinth of houses. After about five minutes he had reached the boundary of the inner curtain wall and here he paused, swiftly checked to see if anyone was paying attention to him and then, deciding they were not, let out a loud belch. Lord, that was better! Already the gentle exercise was lessening the unease in his stomach, and he took in a deep lungful of stinking air to help speed the process. There was nothing so sobering as the foetid reek of an Indian gutter.

Walking a little further to the south he soon came level with the place where the Tippoo had constructed his mine. Wellesley’s eyes fell upon the defunct water gate set into the wall, its heavy teak doors blown off its hinges not yet repaired from the events of the last few days, and beyond those shattered, powder-blackened stones lay the breach where Baird and his men had stormed into the city. It was frightening to think how close they had all been to disaster, unknowingly walking into a trap, and it had only been by the efforts of one man that they were saved. One man, whose name was Sharpe.

Sharpe. Wellesley frowned as an image of the young soldier appeared unbidden before his mind’s eye. Somehow it was always Sharpe these days. In truth he had not taken much notice of the private (now a sergeant) before Baird’s ridiculous scheme had forced him to stop the flogging. Wellesley had ridden up to the rear ranks unobserved, the height of his horse giving him a clear view of the proceedings. A tripod had been erected from three sergeants’ halberds and a man stood lashed to it, two drummer boys laying into the mess of flesh that had once been his back. With each fall of the cat blood splashed up in fine red droplets before oozing down the private’s legs to darken the sand about his feet, the sergeant major chanting the strokes hoarsely.

“One hundred and ninety-nine. Two hundred! Two hundred and one…”

“Stop!”

“Two hundred and two.”

“Stop!” he had called again, his voice ringing clearly through the air, and the drummer boys’ arms had faltered, the whips falling slack at their sides.

He remembered how he had lifted Sharpe’s head with the end of his riding crop and nearly recoiled from the sight of the blind hatred burning in those deep green eyes. For a moment it had left him speechless; never had he seen such anger and he could only wonder how the power of that hatred could be contained in one man’s heart… and then he had seen Sharpe cut down and stand, struggling to regain a few shreds of dignity in front of his persecutors though his back was torn open to the sun and blood trickled to the ground with his every step. There had been so much blood…

Sending a man so recently and brutally flogged on such a mission was a death-sentence in itself; but Wellesley as always had hid his concern behind cold disgust, slighting Sharpe as a thief and a blackguard in case he were to appear soft. A commanding officer should never be seen to be soft. Flogging was a necessary punishment – God knew it was so with such a rabble for an army! – but had the private deserved his punishment? During Sharpe and Lawford’s absence he had made some discrete enquiries of his own, and what he had discovered in relation to Sharpe’s character and what he already knew of Hakeswill’s made him conclude that there had been more to the incident than a straight case of insubordination. Sharpe was an intelligent fellow – the blowing of the mine alone had proved that, along with Lawford and McCandless’ glowing reports of his conduct – and would not have been so foolish as to hit a superior without extreme provocation.

Now…

Now Wellesley dared not admit what he thought of Sharpe, for when he started thinking too closely on the man strange thoughts began to run through his head; thoughts that both frightened and fascinated him, and increasingly left a lingering desire for some of those thoughts to become a reality. _Sharpe…_ Dear God, what was wrong with him? Why should he be affected so? He had never sought after men before, never entertained such desires, and he wondered when exactly it had been that such sentiments had found their way into his soul. It had to have been the flogging, he decided after some consideration. Meeting the man’s eyes in that moment he had felt some odd sensation in his breast; some sort of pang that tightened his chest, caught his breath and made his heart beat faster. He had not known, still did not know, what that sensation was; but every time he saw Sharpe those feelings and thoughts overtook him, each time increasing in strength so that he feared some day soon they must overwhelm his composure. What would become of him then? Sharpe was young, handsome; not much younger than him – seven years at the most? But with that youth came an uncharacteristic confidence, a stubbornness bordering on insubordination, and his slim build cut an appealing figure which the Colonel found devilishly attractive. If only he did not have to powder his hair…

Wellesley shivered, swiftly pushing these thoughts aside in favour of a less arousing subject, forcing his mind to concentrate on the issues that would require his attention in the forthcoming months, of which there were plenty. One way or another India would prove to be his making or his ruin, and he prayed to God it would be the former.

The sound of music and men’s laughter brought him out of his reverie and he was amazed to discover that he had walked much further than he intended, having left the shadow of the wall and circled back into the city’s chaotic alleyways. He had been so entangled with his own thoughts that he had not even noticed where he was going, and now found that he had not the faintest idea as to his whereabouts; nor how he was to return to the palace from wherever this place was.

Another swell of raucous laughter reached his ears and Wellesley frowned. Besides being lost he was beginning to fear for his personal safety. Barely three days ago the men had descended to the level of animals once through the breach; raping, looting, pillaging, murdering and running amock. He had been both shocked and disgusted, and it had taken a full day and a half for order to be restored. It was frightening how easily the mob could turn on their betters, and the little nagging voice that had troubled him earlier was swiftly becoming much more insistent. His hand unconsciously came to rest on the hilt of his sabre. In this remote alleyway who would care if he were Colonel Arthur Wellesley or not? He was alone, far from the palace and the possibility of his being jumped in the dark, having his throat slit by thugs eager for money to waste on drink and whores was not merely a scenario that belonged to an over-active imagination. However, curiosity was the overriding instinct above caution, and curiosity drove him on to discover what sort of revels his men were engaged in. He headed towards the music.

The noise led him down yet another narrower alleyway between two houses which opened out into a small, informal square, at the centre of which there was a fire. Seated around this fire were about sixty redcoats, and the redcoats surrounded a group of dark-skinned women in brightly coloured skirts; some wearing jewellery (which Wellesley suspected was the previous days’ plunder already spent), some with studs in the side of their noses which glinted as they twirled in the firelight – and all of them were smiling, the whites of their eyes and teeth bright against the darkness of the night and their complexions. A couple of the men were so far gone on arrack that they were up dancing with the women, trying to replicate the exotic steps without much success and to the greater amusement of their comrades. Two old men and one younger were providing the music with a set of small drums, a crude stringed instrument not unlike a harp and a sitar. Fascinated, Wellesley leaned up against the mouth of the alley to watch. The women carried small cymbals between their thumbs and forefingers which added their delicate chimes to the strangely beguiling accompaniment… In many ways India was such a beguiling country; unbelievably rich and decadent to one extreme, severely impoverished and blighted with drought at the other. Hot and wet, where cows roamed the streets unimpeded, men worshipped demon-like gods with fasting and death, and where princelings rode atop elephants is silver-capped _howdahs_. 

Sometimes, Wellesley reflected as the women pranced and pirouetted before the whistling redcoats, just sometimes he envied the freedoms of the lower classes. With greater status and responsibility came fewer freedoms, less room for mistakes. He was never truly alone anymore; any exercise he chose to take on foot or on horseback was accompanied by a gaggle of aides and an armed guard; even when he had left the banquet this evening he had been trailed by two officers eager to start arranging tomorrow’s business before he had bluntly dismissed them. Not so long ago, in the days before he had burnt his violin, nothing had delighted him more than music and to stand up with a charming young lady, to stay out with friends well into the small hours and damn the consequences the next morning. He used to love dancing, and he suspected that he still did, but if he ever danced again it would chiefly be because it was his duty to, not his pleasure. Reserved dances, dispassionate steps – not anything like those for the young or the country dances at home, and certainly nothing near those that were danced here.

He suddenly realised that his right foot was tapping in time with the drums and swiftly stilled it. Watching the girls intently, his thoughts predictably became less gentlemanly. It had been several months since he had last had a woman, but nor was there much of an opportunity at the moment for him to get one. He did not care to use the officers’ brothels; fucking was not in his books a social activity, plus gossip travelled fast in the army and he doubted that he would have got his britches down before every man from General Harris to the lowliest private’s dog knew that Arthur was having it off. Sending for one would be the other option, though after the storming he doubted there was a single woman left in Seringapatam without the clap, and the deceased Tippoo’s harem was sacrosanct. But in truth what he really wanted now, right now, was not a woman at all – was more unattainable than the ladies of the harem. He cursed under his breath and tried to re-focus on the dancers, but the twirling skirts, the flashing smiles and the joyful eyes all faded as his mind irresistibly turned to another; to straw-coloured hair, to wide jade eyes, to a face that betrayed emotion so easily and a thin-lipped mouth that he longed to taste. He groaned softly as he recalled how the very tip of the man’s tongue would run across his bottom lip when its owner was nervous, imagined how else that tongue and mouth might be employed…

“Is everything alright, sir?” a low voice murmured next to his ear.

Wellesley resisted the urge to whirl around, though his heart was beating so swiftly. Fighting to keep his composure, he merely stiffened his shoulders and addressed the speaker in a dispassionate tone.

“Was there something you wanted, sergeant?”

“Me, sir? No, sir.” Sergeant Sharpe straightened. Wellesley frowned severely, thanking heaven that it was too dark for the sergeant to see his crimson face, nor the cold sweat beginning to trickle down the back of his neck. Ye gods, how embarrassing! To have been thinking such thoughts and then for the man in question to appear! To Sharpe it must have seemed that he had been openly leering at the women – even worse if he had groaned out loud as he thought he had done – but the truth… The constriction in his chest had returned, and confound it, why did his heart quicken so?

“Then why are you here?” As ever Wellesley sought safety behind his mask of professional displeasure, turning to face the sergeant and wrinkling his nose as he smelt arrack on the other man’s breath.

“You’ll beg pardon, sir, I came to see if you was alright. This ain’t a place for an officer, sir.”

The Colonel continued to frown at him coldly and Sharpe once more wondered what could have brought him out here alone, hatless and so obviously out of place; but then to his surprise Wellesley gave a low, mirthless laugh, lowering his eyes to stare at the ground and a wry smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“No. No, sergeant, this certainly isn’t a place for officers.”

This reply caused Sharpe to worry even more. He had seen the Colonel lurking at the end of the alley, half hidden in the shadows, and approached unseen to determine what sight had such a hold on his officer’s attention. He had been somewhat surprised to find Wellesley ogling at women, as this behaviour was not that of the severe, aloof young man he believed Wellesley to be. He cleared his throat tentatively.

“Would you like me to escort you back to the palace, sir? Just in case you get lost?”

“Thank you, Sharpe, but I know my way back,” Wellesley snapped, his temper returning fleetingly, though this was not in the least true. He had not the slightest idea how to get back to the palace from here, yet it was not something that in his present mood he was prepared to admit.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

An uneasy silence descended upon the two men as they eyed each other across the short distance that separated them, the music and laughter now nothing but a dim background noise. Their gazes met, and Wellesley detected something of an odd look in Sharpe’s eyes, and he grew increasingly uncomfortable as the sergeant’s expression did not change.

“Is there something you wished to say?” Wellesley questioned eventually, using a harsher tone than he had intended.

“Yes, sir. I… That is, sir…” Sharpe seemed to be having difficulty choosing his words, the overtone of awkwardness in the tall man’s bearing all too obvious. He then sighed heavily, seeming to give up, and raised his head once more to level his eyes with Wellesley’s. Sharpe’s expression was still unreadable as he took a pace forward so that there was now only inches between them. Then he bent his head, taking a careful hold of Wellesley’s arms, leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to his colonel’s lips.

Wellesley closed his eyes as a shudder ran down his spine. The sensation was fleeting, lasting all of two seconds before Sharpe broke away, taking a step back, lifting his chin and looking him defiantly in the eyes.

“Sir.”

For a moment Wellesley could not say a word. He blinked. His head was spinning far more than it had been from the drink at dinner, his heart beating so furiously that he felt it might at any moment burst from his chest. Duty, if not common decency, demanded that he say something, anything; but it was only with supreme effort that he managed to speak.

“You are drunk, sergeant.” The words came out hoarsely and did not sound as if they belonged to him. Sharpe grinned coyly.

“Aye, sir; maybe,” he said quietly. “But, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re not exactly objecting.”

No, he wasn’t. Quite the opposite in fact, as the tightening in his breeches suggested, thoroughly betraying him. A thousand thoughts flashed through his head; a thousand desires and a thousand reasons why this could not be happening, why it must not. He should step away, leave this godforsaken alley, return to his rooms and pretend this night never happened… yet he was not moving; just staring wide-eyed at Sharpe who was watching him anxiously, no doubt expecting any minute to be condemned to a court marshal and returned to have his sentence of two thousand lashes completed.

And then quite suddenly Wellesley grabbed the nape of Sharpe’s neck, drawing him down into a fierce kiss. Sharpe’s lips parted willingly for his tongue, the harsh taste of arrack in the other man’s mouth and the coarse scrape of stubble against his chin sending a thrill through his body. He found himself taking the small step back which pressed him up against the wall, feeling his coat catch against the mud bricks as Sharpe crushed against him, hot tongues duelling, fingers tangling in his hair, a well-placed thigh rocking against his hardness eliciting a needy moan which was almost immediately swallowed by Sharpe’s mouth. Wellesley was certain he had taken leave of his senses, or indeed that perhaps he was dreaming. Maybe India had sent him mad like so many other men and he was now lost to his fantasies. Perhaps he was really lying strapped to his bed back at the palace, surrounded by his aides, gibbering softly and a doctor shaking his head in despair?

They broke apart, panting for breath. Wellesley cupped Sharpe’s face in his hands, running his thumbs reverently over the prominent cheekbones and dirty skin, drinking in every detail of the features belonging to the man he had desired for so long. Sharpe grinned somewhat bashfully under such scrutiny, his eyes momentarily flickering to the girls and then back again.

“Would you be fancying a dance, sir?” he asked huskily. His voice seemed to have thickened. “Somewhere more private-like?”

There and then Wellesley decided that he did not want to return to his quarters; not back to where he would be under the scrutiny of every person of note in the army, where he would have to remember his dignity - besides it would be difficult to explain the presence of a mere sergeant in his private chambers with any credibility. He nodded.

“Do you have rooms, Sharpe?”

“Yes, sir. Only a couple of streets away.”

“Let us go there, then.”

They did their best to walk sedately, although Sharpe noticed a somewhat impatient spring in Wellesley’s step, at the sight of which he could not help but grin.

The sergeant’s rooms turned out to be a small two storey house near the Mysore Gate. Sharpe lit a candle in the downstairs room which acted as a kitchen before leading the way upstairs to what served as a bedroom. In one corner was an old camp bed with a straw-stuffed mattress, pillow and a blanket – the only other furniture in the room being a somewhat rickety stool. The distant noise of the musicians and redcoats filtered up through the latticed shutters of a narrow window. Placing the candle on the stool, Sharpe turned and the two men once more stood regarding each other.

“Do you have anything to drink?” Wellesley asked, thinking that he might as well break the ice.

“Nothing better than arrack, sir.”

“That’ll do.”

It was, he suspected, Dutch courage; but it was one of the rare times in his life that he felt he really needed a drink, and he took a generous swig as Sharpe handed over the bottle he extracted from his pack. The vicious liquor hit the back of his throat, yet somehow he resisted the urge to choke. Sharpe took a longer pull, taking too gulps before replacing the cork and setting the bottle down beside the stool. He turned back to face the Colonel, swallowing awkwardly.

They met in a kiss that left both men breathless. Wellesley’s fingers tangled in Sharpe’s hair, his other hand grabbing his arse and pulling him closer, feeling that Sharpe was now hard as well and rubbed his thigh against his crotch, for which he was rewarded with a long drawn-out moan from the other man. Sharpe’s hands started to scrabble at the buttons on his coat and Wellesley helped him, undoing the last three and shrugging the red coat onto the floor. Sharpe laughed softly against his cheek.

“Careful, sir; it’ll get all dirty down there.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” Wellesley growled, starting to attack Sharpe’s coat.

“What do I call you, then?”

“Arthur,” he said. “Nothing more, nothing less; just Arthur.”

Sharpe smiled.

“Arthur it is.” He paused uncertainly, then said shyly; “My name’s Richard.”

Wellesley felt the strongest inclination to laugh at Sharpe's bashfulness, but settled for a smirk.

“And a very fine name it is too, Richard.”

Having removed their coats, they set about divesting themselves of their shirts and, in Wellesley’s case, waistcoat. Wellesley stood admiring the skinny but hard-muscled frame that was revealed to him, running his hands reverently over the scarred, pale skin dappled by the moonlight, so far untouched by the sun and a small groan escaped the sergeant as they passed over stiff, peaked nipples sending a shiver through his loins. He had completely lost his reason. This was beyond reason; beyond any sense or sanity.

Moving across the room, backing towards the bed, the edge of the rickety structure caught the colonel’s knees and they both fell backwards onto the mattress, unheeding of the bed’s creak of protest at the unexpected weight. Wellesley’s head fell back against the pillow, gasping as each kiss burned into the sensitive skin of his neck which, coupled with the after-affects of the arrack, made his throat feel as if it were on fire from the inside as well as out. Sharpe’s hand fumbled at the fall of Wellesley’s breeches and the Colonel followed suit, impatiently attacking buttons, pulling fabric aside, and they both gasped and moaned their pleasure as heated flesh met heated flesh. Sweat sheened both their bodies as they breathed in lungful after lungful of humid air, the sergeant’s spine arching as he felt hands skim over the stripes across his back. He sat up and knelt between Wellesley’s thighs, pushing his legs apart and an errant hand fondled the Colonel’s balls, then strayed further back to stroke his buttocks, running the tips of his fingers down the cleft. Wellesley moaned aloud, then gasped and grabbed at Sharpe’s wrist in alarm as he felt one digit stroke the small, tight circle of muscle.

“Richard! Please, I –”

But Sharpe pressed a silencing finger to the older man’s lips, making soothing noises.

“Don’t worry, Arthur; I know what I’m doing.”

“But I don’t!” There was a strained edge to Wellesley’s voice, and he flushed crimson at the admission. Sharpe looked at him for a moment, a glimmer of concern showing in those jade eyes. Then he smiled, touching one sweaty palm to his face, stroking a thumb over his cheek tenderly.

“It’s alright, Arthur,” he said reassuringly, then, grinning broadly; “And besides, I reckon you do know.” He shifted his hand forward so his long fingers closed lightly around Wellesley’s erection. “I reckon you bloody well know, and you want it bad.”

Wellesley groaned, wantonly pushing up into Sharpe’s feather-light caresses, his head falling back against the pillow once more. He knew he was at the younger man’s mercy, knew that this was irregular, undignified, degrading for a man of his station; but he also knew that he no longer cared. He moaned his longing as Sharpe’s hand returned to that tight ring of muscle, circling, teasing, probing with a delicacy he would not previously have credited the man with.

“I’ve always wanted you, Richard,” he murmured. “Dear God, how I’ve wanted you!”

“Well, now you have me,” Sharpe said, tugging on a nipple gently with his teeth, making his superior hiss in surprise. “Question is, what will you do with me now?”

Wellesley felt the flush returning to his cheeks. He had dreamed of this moment for months; but now it came to it he was not sure how to proceed. He had heard something of the technique involved whilst he had been in Angers, but that was years ago and he suspected that to some degree his informant had been practicing on him; and now he found that at the crucial moment his courage failed him.

“I, I admit that I am not entirely certain.”

He heard a low chuckle from the sergeant, and a sudden feeling of misgiving began to creep over him.

“Then it’s a bloody good job I am.”

Wellesley did not have a chance to reply, for the words were choked as that skilful tongue returned to plunder his mouth. He writhed upon the sheets, shivering violently as Sharpe trailed damp kisses from his throat down his chest and belly, suckling hungrily on the flesh presented to him, moving steadily southwards until the world spun away from the young colonel, his senses reeling into oblivion. His heart beat like a drum inside his chest – another drum to add to the cacophony for the women to dance to – and here, so far away from other ears, so far away from anyone who knew him, he was not afraid to cry out his ecstasy.

\---------

It was now well gone midnight. The streets of Seringapatam had fallen silent, the dancers returned home and the soldiers to their tents, but the music still ran on through Wellesley’s head. He smiled lazily. Tomorrow he would have to find an excuse for his absence to present to General Harris; though what he might say he had not yet the slightest idea. He imagined his aides worriedly scurrying about the palace, distraught that their Colonel had slipped the leash, organising search parties… They would not dream of looking for him here, and he would not go back until he was ready to. He could just imagine the look of indignant outrage on Baird’s face as he sauntered into the General’s office the next day, completely unscathed by his previous evening’s disappearance. There would be the devil to pay, but he did not care a fig for them; as far as he was concerned they could all boil their heads.

Beside him Sharpe murmured sleepily and Wellesley placed a kiss to the straw-coloured hair which had long ago fallen out of its queue, stroking his hands soothingly down the whip-scarred back and smiling serenely as the younger man unconsciously sought closer contact, wriggling so their sticky, sweat-dampened bodies were pressed tightly together. He may not have danced, but for once – just this once – he felt truly free. The world was mad, Wellesley decided as his eyelids slid shut, sleep finally claiming him; and he was mad with it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Morning After](https://archiveofourown.org/works/387419) by [Sharpiefan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan)




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